


Age is an excuse

by un_petit_peu_de_moi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Bickering, M/M, Prompt Fill, Slight Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 00:45:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10628625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/un_petit_peu_de_moi/pseuds/un_petit_peu_de_moi
Summary: Lucho is too old for this.Lucho is too old for this, and also whoever made the sitting arrangements needs to be fired.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This my fill for [Football Prompt](https://footballprompts.tumblr.com/) April's set. I chose the trope prompt : **reunion**.
> 
> Well, I never saw myself writing about these three, but it sprang into my mind so. Mind, I don't know everything there is to know about Barcelona and those three guys. Keeping it simple anyway : Lucho, Guariola and Mourinho all were at Barça at the same time (Mourinho was part of the staff). They were buddy. Years later, Mourinho coaches Real Madrid, Guardiola coaches Barça. No buddy no more.
> 
> For future readers : at the time of this story, Lucho is about to finish his last season as the coach of Barcelona, and will retire as a coach altogether. Mourinho is coaching Manchester United while Guardiola coaches Manchester City.

Lucho was too old for this.

 

He sighed for the umpteenth time that night, trying to focus on the giant screen instead of the idiots bickering at his sides. Whoever had made the sitting arrangement needed to be fired.

 

“-that fat cow of an attacker-”

 

He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Once upon a time, it’d have been easy to silence these voices. Once upon a time, they all belonged to the same side.

 

“You think _Zlatan_ is any better? He’s got even more ego than you-”

 

José shook his head. “I take care of my players.”

 

“You destroy them you mean,” Pep answered sarcastically.

 

“Agüero is shit. Everyone knows it’s your fault.”

 

“I want to make him better.”

 

“I like when my players are already the best,” Mourinho retorted. “That’s why you lose.”

 

Pep put his hands on the table, leaning in. Luis caught a sniff of his perfume. Back in the days, Pep rarely bothered with perfume, smelled like the soap he’d used that day. Now the scent was so strong Lucho felt like pulling back to throw up.

 

“Lose? I lose? You-”

 

“Can you both shut up,” Lucho finally interrupted them. He was close to standing up and leaving, and that would make the press curious. He hated the press on good days, but curious, they were unbearable.

 

There were flashes every now and then, and he could already see the newspaper tomorrow, a picture of the three of them sitting, a title along the lines of “The Big Three together again”. He didn’t want to add _handsome Caucasian fella flees the scen_ e to _middle-aged men won’t stop bickering_.

 

Pep drew his hands back and José sat back with a tsk.

 

“The Premier League is the best league there is,” he said. Lucho wasn’t sure he was actually thinking it, but United probably paid him enough for him to fake it. José faked everything anyway. “You can’t understand,” he said, dismissive but Luis knew better. José was provoking him.

 

“Can you remind me, how many English clubs are in the Champion’s League?” Lucho asked. He tried not to meddle, but José should know better. “What about the one you coached?”

 

José’s outraged stare landed on him, and Luis could see the beginning of a rant about either 1) bad refereeing, 2) awful weather or 3) Pep. José always found a way to make it Pep’s fault.

 

Pep looked content, always happy when José was not.

 

Luis remembered laughing alongside these men, sharing anger, sorrow and happiness.

 

“I’ll have you know-”

 

“For real,” Lucho repeated. He anchored his stare on the big screen – Ronaldo, what was Ronaldo doing there? - intent on seeing this event to its end without an incident. “Shut up. They’re gonna call the coaches soon.”

 

José didn’t look happy but he kept quiet. He wouldn’t want to miss his name being called.

 

Luis had no idea what took him. Why he accepted this invitation in the first place. He hated this kind of galas. He hated galas, period. Football was only a show if there was grass under his shoes and a sky spreading over his head. This was a travesty, and he felt like a clown, clad in a nice suit, a glass full of Champagne, attending a gala and smiling at the flashes.

 

His players, he mused. His players had been to blame, insisting he should go at least once, before he retired, before he left Barça. He didn’t need to turn around to know Gerard Piqué was somewhere around there, paying less attention to his beautiful wife and more attention to the three men arguing a few tables over.

 

The jokes would be never ending.

 

“He’s incompetent,” José muttered, and Luis focused back on the screen as it displayed the list of coaches nominated. He watched Arsène Wenger’s figure, the long legs and long coat and long hair. Here was one man he’d never thought would outlast him.

 

“Incompetent,” José said again when the image switched and Zinédine Zidane filled the screen.

 

“Real Madrid are winning La Liga,” Lucho pointed out absentmindedly.

 

“That’s because of Cristiano. Cristiano is good.” José glanced at him, arms crossed and sat into his chair ike an upset child. “And because you’re more incompetent than him,” he added.

 

Luis turned to him, lifted a brow. “Have you ever won a treble, José?”

 

Pep snorted then laughed, and laughed some more when José spluttered indignantly.

 

“You’re the only one here who’s incompetent,” Pep added eagerly. “You ruin every team you coach.”

 

“The players are shit. I’d have win a treble too, if I had Messi.”

 

“Messi will never go to a team you coach,” Pep answered without missing a beat.

 

“Every players has a price.”

 

“No,” Pep shook his head. “He belongs to Barça. Loyalty has no price,” he said. This went beyond Messi and they all knew it. Pep’s voice was sharp like a needle to poke at José and re-open old wounds.

 

José brushed it aside. He’d never bothered himself with heavy things, like loyalty, sincerity, trust.

 

“What if I coach Barcelona one day?” He gave a nod in Lucho’s direction and looked quite proud of himself. “Who says I’m not the next coach?”

 

“No-” Lucho had to catch Pep’s arm to keep him from standing up and catching attention. He felt the way his arm tensed, his first closed and he almost trembled with restrained anger. “ _Never_. I’ll die sooner than see you in blaugrana.”

 

Ah, there they were. The old wounds.

 

José smirked, a grimace on his face, something ugly. “You haven’t always said that,” he retorted.

 

And indeed, Lucho remembered times in the privacy of their own rooms, where Pep and him had been sweaty and victorious, where José wore the red and blue stripes and a name on his back – one of theirs – and Pep’s hunger would never die. They’d been a family back then.

 

Old wounds, bleeding all over their table and dirtying the nice white linen. It got over his hands, pooled in his dish, because they’d never learned how to deal with their anger – always had too much of it, never knew how to let it go, and it was left to Lucho to mend up the pieces.

 

“You’re not worthy of Barcelona,” Pep finally said, voice strained. “You never were.”

 

It was almost a whisper, a silent weapon. Lucho felt his pain, remembered it and tried to cast it aside. He couldn’t afford to hold onto the past, the way Pep did.

 

José tensed at his sides, hurt where it was the most painful, but he had too much pride to admit it. Had too much pride to apologize. Had even more pride when it came to admit he wasn’t sorry for the betrayal, but for the way he’d hurt them.

 

Lucho shook his head. “Focus,” he said. “They’re about to call the winner.”

 

With everything he’d even missed the clip they’d made of him. He hoped he’d looked good.

 

When they called the winner – Diego Simeone this time – Lucho clapped with sincerity. This was a good person, who gave his club everything, and who Lucho respected deeply.

 

Pep clapped too, although his mind didn’t seem to be into it.

 

José didn’t even bother clapping.

 

 

–

 

 

Lucho leaned against the wall, waiting for his taxi to come. The night was chilly and there were no reporters around, all too busy photographing Mr and Ms Shakira. His player had been useful after all.

 

He exhaled, white puffs forming in front of his eyes, the tip of his nose growing cold.

 

“You’re going back to Barcelona?”

 

Lucho turned his head and met Pep’s earnest eyes. He nodded.

 

“The season is far from over.”

 

“I love Barcelona with all my heart,” Pep said, walking up to him and leaning on the wall besides him. “And if anyone can do it it’s you, and Messi. But you’re gonna lose this one.”

 

Lucho smiled, elbowed Pep in the sides. “You too.”

 

“I know.”

 

They stayed a few seconds in silence, staring at the black and gray parking lots.

 

“So, this is the first and last time I’m seeing you at this kind of event then,” Pep said, not a question.

 

Unsaid was, _this is the last time I’m seeing you_.

 

“Guess so,” Lucho answered. Wondered whether it was the last time he was seeing Pep. _No_ , he wanted to answer, but. But if he wasn’t a coach, why would they be seeing each other? They both had families. Lucho had deleted Pep and José’s numbers long ago. If Lucho retired, what reason would he have to see them again?

 

The thought made him sadder than he had excepted. He felt hollow and tired all at once.

 

He was too old for these things.

 

“There you are!” Someone exclaimed, and Lucho dreaded and welcomed that voice. “Reunion of the incompetents,” José harrumphed.

 

“You’re there too,” Lucho pointed out.

 

Pep grinned. “King of the incompetent,” he said, smugly.

 

José looked indignant. “You two, whoever hired you should be fired. _You_ should be fired.”

 

“If there’s one coach out there who needs to be fired, it’s you,” Pep bit back. “If I could, I’d hire you just so I could fire you. Then I’d hire you and fire you again.”

 

José’s eyes narrowed, and Lucho drew back from the wall, keeping his body between José and Pep, just in case.

 

“I wouldn’t even _hire_ you,” José argued, vindictive. “Even if you were the last man on earth. You’re so shitty as a coach, you don’t win even if you pay the referee.”

 

“Oh, you know all about paying the refs don’t you?” Pep said, taking a step forward.

 

“I know all about _winning_ ,” José argued back, pride into his every words. Lucho was half convinced he was admitting to corruption.

 

Lucho could see the scene : José takes a step forward, Pep follows. José stabs an open wound and Pep throws the first punch. They make too much noise, the press comes running. Big titles tomorrow, _Manchester derbys in Switzerland. Barcelona offside_. The press conference and the nagging, _god_ the nagging.

 

“You?” Pep hissed. “You don’t know shits about winning. All you know is failure.”

 

Lucho was too old for this, but he remembered being young. He remembered how this worked.

 

“Your only success is Barcelona but you had Messi,” José scoffed. “You’re the most overrated-”

 

Lucho grabbed José’s nape and smashed his lips against his, swallwing the insults he’d been about to spit. José stilled, eyes wide open staring into Lucho’s half-lidded one. Lucho didn’t spare him, kiss wet and heavy, not giving José a second to think.

 

He drew back, wiped his mouth with his sleeve and glanced at Pep’s shocked form.

 

“I’ve rented a hotel room for the night,” he said, voice raspy. “Either you come with me or you fuck off.”

 

He knew how this would go : Pep nods, José smiles. They bicker all the way to the hotel room, jump on each other once the door opens. Lucho makes them slow down, brings the lube, the rubber. They kiss Lucho nicely, because they’re too proud to be tender with each other. Lucho is the middle ground, the no man’s land. He tries to give back, to the both of them, let the three of them melt until they can pretend they’re a family once again.

 

Pep nodded.

 

José smiled.

 

He was too old for this thing, but he guessed one last time wouldn’t hurt.

**Author's Note:**

> this was actually fun to write.


End file.
